


you come in like a tornado, leaving me breathless and broken

by sicklikewinter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklikewinter/pseuds/sicklikewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was a birthday present for luma<br/>i'm just now transferring it here oops</p>
    </blockquote>





	you come in like a tornado, leaving me breathless and broken

**Author's Note:**

> this was a birthday present for luma  
> i'm just now transferring it here oops

Your name is Dave Strider, and even though it’s nothing but a fleeting thought—you think it’d be better for you to just die.  The others live a normal life, fleeting memories that haunt them in nightmares; and they just barely remember your name when you pester them—you wonder if it’s the game’s doing or if you were really a worthless pathetic sack of  _shit_.

You’re worth nothing, just one of many many many copies over the years (and the countless ignored messages you send over and over and over again to your chums, ‘notice me’s in red text that burns your eyes).  You’re the alpha, sure, but there’s been hundreds of you with memories you don’t  _remember_  and it aches and peels away at the fragile armor you have haphazardly taped and tacked together on the outside of your heart.  It’s a lonely existence, Knight of Time, and always thinking always on your toes always ahead (always behind as well) always needing to be  _there_  at exactly the right moment to saveprotectprevent _ **fix**_.

It makes you sick sometimes, and you wonder if your existence(s) even mean anything to your friends, or the trolls you’re fucking around with to beat the god damned game.  You haven’t done jack shit since it ended, only finding more things to preserve—the only thing that clears your vivid memories of the game and the failed yous and dead yous are the smell of formaldehyde and the strong bleach you use to clean up permeating the apartment you live in—and finding more shitty comic ideas for your website.

It’s a kind of existence you hate, but it doesn’twon’twon’t _won’t_  move you to change further. 

None of the others try to contact you either, you are always the one to initiate to start to pester pester pester first before they notice or go busy before you get a chance to talk.  You’re the lone Knight, lost and utterly and completely alone alone  _alone_. 

It hurts.

So you indulge in the late nights roaming the internet, bags increasing tenfold beneath your eyes beneath your shades, and you hardly ever wake up before 4 p.m.  You indulge in those late nights browsing sites that’ll perk your interest, more shitty comic ideas here and there, more ways to help preserve the animals you already have and future preservation projects, and photography tips. Perhaps the distractions will help the pain subside, maybe forget and get lost in the black hole called the internet.

It doesn’t help, but the numbing sensation of scrolling through countless pages of text distracts minutely—you just want them to remember to help this pit in your stomach cease to help you please you fuckers help me—until your chumroll lights up with sky blue text, and the familiar ding-ding-ding of the alerts make your stomach drop and roll beneath your computer desk.  It’s something foreign to you, you’re always the one to talk first never them and it’s throwing you for a loop.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

EB: Dave?  
EB: Dave are you there?  
TG: yo egbert whats up  
TG: not like you to be up at such an hour isnt it like the asscrack of dawn over there or some shit  
EB: it’s like 8 a.m. here dude. you’re the one up at the “asscrack of dawn” it’s 6 a.m there!   
EB: are you okay?  
TG: peachy  
TG: so utterly peachy dude  
TG: just can me up and set me aside for the winter man  
TG: sweeten up my juices for a moment where you want a nice peach cobbler to set down for thanksgiving   
TG: everybody at the table is so fuckin stoked for it like fuck yeah its peach cobbler made with some hella sweet dave-fuckin-peachy-strider ready to eat with a nice big scoop of good old vanilla ice cream  
TG: what do you want egbert  
TG: you hardly ever pester me first its like i have to do all the wooing man  
EB: jesus Dave…  
EB: you’re definitely not okay.  
TG: really now egbert what makes you say that

The chat goes quiet, and you’re certain you’ve fucked up another chance at telling him what goes through your mind every fucking night. It’s getting harder and harder to care, however, and you go back to browsing. When the alerts become more rapid and frantic; you raise an eyebrow and switch windows. The shitty webcam request that pesterchum installed after the game ended blinks up at you and you click it. 

You must be a glutton for punishment and more heartbreak; the first thing you see is John’s worried face—blue eyes fixed on you and nothing else he’s in his god tier pajamas (dork) and he’s worrying his lip with his bucked teeth and you haven’t felt this scrutinized since Bro wanted to know why the hell you were up and leaving for your own apartment. 

The conversation is more static than John’s voice, but you don’t care it’s  _interaction_  with someone you’ve died a thousand times over to save and keep alive  and it’s beautiful. You stay impassive as John scrutinizes you for anything out of place or missing. 

“Why are you acting so strange? You’re always up really late Dave, it’s kind of worrying…”

You feel your heart leap. He’s noticed and you wonder if he stays up late at night worrying and attempting to figure out a way to get you to rest and care for yourself. All you do in response is shrug your shoulders—indifferent you’re worthless why does he care anyway you’re just another dave to this john a cycle of doomed doomed  _doomed_ —the perfect cover up for the lump in your throat. 

He frowns and you wonder if you’ve fucked it up again.

“Dave… talk to me? You’re always so quiet when we do our big memos, and you’ve hardly antagonized Karkat! He’s even worried about how silent you are!”

Your heart skips a beat and it’s like you’re drowning in everything you’ve dreamed—doomed daves’ memories of a desperate grab for a doomed john’s hand don’t leave me john please don’t leave me dave! over and over in a flash of multicolored lights and cracking universes—and you cannot bring yourself to speak.

Instead you smash almost desperately at your keyboard, ignoring the curious look John shoots you through static and shitty resolutions.

TG: john  
TG: i  
TG: fuck  
TG: nevermind

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] \--

The look on his face as you type breaks and elates you—it’s surprise but there’s something else in his eyes something that isn’t outright disgust or hatred you didn’t want to stay to find out which was which in your cowardly endeavor—and you jerk away from the computer.

Instead you make your way into the living room, shitty and piled high with boxes from Chinese takeout and plates filled with your sad attempts at a home cooked meal. Your phone flashes desperately on the table, and you see the familiar text messages from John piling up. 

EB: what? no wait Dave!!  
EB: Dave come on! please answer back!  
EB: …  
EB: come on…  
EB: don’t make me call you dude.  
EB: Dave…   
EB: tell me what you were going to say!! 

It hurts to watch the phone light up with every text, and it hurts even more when the phone ceases to light up to instead vibrate rapidly—answer me answer me answer meansweransweranswer!!—and you never make the move to make it stop or answer it. 

You want to call John back, talk to him, explain explain explain the reasons why he’s so amazing he really is! You want to tell him how his smile leaves you breathless and how his eyes leave you dumbstruck like a teenage girl going through Bieber Fever; and tell him you want to kiss his dumb dorky face over and over and over again.

You can’t though, you’re too much of a wreck—no one wants damaged goods you’re just a fleeting memory of red and time and sick rhymes that were past their prime—and  _you’re not a hero_.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re in love with John Egbert. 

~~And he doesn’t _know_.~~


End file.
